


A Destiny and a Promise

by Anonymous



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer
Genre: (not Paris/Helen), Cheating, Child Abandonment, Divine Machinations, Eloping, F/M, Female Relationships, Infidelity, Kidnapping, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Tree Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "I claim you as my own, Helen of Sparta.  Men will sing of your beauty far and wide, through the ages.  You will be adored and famed beyond your wildest dreams, and you will know a passion that will set the world ablaze: thus the Fates decree. ”Thus spoke the goddess Aphrodite.When young Helen of Sparta is abducted to Athens, the goddess visits her with a terrible promise.  In time, Helen realizes the goddess spoke true, as she embarks on her journey to becoming Helen of Troy.
Relationships: Clytemnestra & Helen of Troy & Penelope (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Helen of Troy & Aethra of Troezen, Helen of Troy & Aphrodite, Helen of Troy/Menelaus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Helen of Troy/Paris (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Kudos: 4
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	1. Divine Promise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hmweasley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hmweasley/gifts).



Athens and her environs was supposed to be a rich, glimmering kingdom, and the large chamber in Aphidna was certainly lush, fit for a Queen. But Helen saw no beauty. Perched in the middle of a too-huge bed, the young girl drew her knees up to her chest, and waited. She was alone in a foreign land, held captive by a hero king. But Theseus wasn’t here, and so Helen was unafraid. Her brothers will come for her, even if no one else dared to challenge the slayer of the Minotaur. She was a daughter of Zeus and a princess of Sparta, of hero stock herself, and her brothers will come. 

Her captor’s mother sat nearby, weaving. Queen Aethra was the only one Theseus allowed near her. She’d been shocked when her son had appeared, a terrified, bound girl child in tow, whom he’d introduced as his future bride. Theseus had deposited Helen with Aethra and then taken off on another mission. Aethra immediately cut Helen’s bonds, bathed her herself, and done her best to ease Helen’s fears. The old woman told her stories of Theseus’ younger days, when he was Athens’ shining new hope, and encouraged her to help with the weaving. Helen had always hated weaving.

In her hands, she clutched a bronze mirror, handle inlaid with pearl – a gift from Theseus before his departure.

“I wanted to offer you something that could compare to your beauty,” he’d said, oddly shy and halting. “But no treasure I have does you justice. I can only hope that this will reflect your glory well.”

Helen stared at her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t see the divine beauty about which Theseus raved. The fairness of face and perfection of form which drove a hero to disgrace himself and steal her away. 

_“Poor child.”_ Helen started. The mirror in her hand shimmered, and in her head, Helen had an impression of a woman lovelier than the sky, with a voice of purest gold.

 _“My poor girl,”_ the mirror cooed. 

Clutching the mirror’s pearl handle tightly, Helen whispered, “What are you?”

 _“You know me, child,”_ the mirror replied. And Helen did. Deep within her heart, she knew this voice. It had whispered to her for years, guiding and reassuring her. Even when Theseus had torn her away from her home, the voice whispered to her that she was not alone. 

“My lady,” Helen murmured. She glanced over to Aethra, but the old woman paid her no mind. 

_“Don't worry, she can’t hear me. She won’t notice us.”_

“Who are you, my lady? What do you want from me?”

 _“You tell me, Helen. Who am I?”_ the mirror asked. And Helen breathed the name inscribed on her heart.

Aphrodite _._

Helen stared into the shining bronze surface. Why had the Golden One taken an interest in her? Was she the cause of Theseus’ lustful interest in Helen?

_“Theseus is no doing of mine, child. But be easy, he will not harm you.”_

Helen jumped, feeling the goddess’ displeasure deep in her bones. “Forgive me, my lady. I meant no disrespect.”

The air glimmered and the tightness around Helen’s chest eased. She breathed out a sigh of relief.

The mirror dimmed. _“Poor child, such beauty was not meant for mortals to bear.”_

Helen held her silence. Her very earliest memories were of people commenting on her beauty, in both admiring and envious tones. Her father and brothers spoke of her proudly, doting on her. Her sister was less complimentary. But lately, the murmurings had taken on a different undertone. The men of her father’s court looked on her with equal measures of desire and fear that confused and repulsed her. And most recently, Theseus, his breath stinking of wine and his hands fluttering about her, almost but not quite daring to touch, rambled to her of how he could not bear to look upon such unearthly loveliness, yet was driven to possess, all the same. It frightened Helen.

“What will become of me, my lady?”

Laughter light as the sea breeze off Sparta’s harbour filled the room. “ _You are fated to be the most beautiful woman in the world.”_

Panic seized Helen, stealing the breath from her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut as tremors shot through her small body. She knew what happened to mortals who dared to vie with the gods, and she was certain that even her august parentage wouldn’t save her. “Please, goddess, I don’t want that. I’d never dare.”

The laughter turned harsh, settling deep inside Helen’s bones. _“I am afraid this is not your choice, my child. But fear not. I claim you as my own, Helen of Sparta. Men will sing of your beauty far and wide, through the ages. You will leave Athens unscathed, for your story has only begun. You will be adored and famed beyond your wildest dreams, and you will know a passion that will set the world ablaze: thus the Fates decree.”_

Helen opened her eyes, entranced. Terror warred with desire in her breast, and for the first time, she felt like she understood how her admirers felt. The goddess’ words were shocking, but Her voice soothed the rising fear, painting a picture which Helen could not help but yearn toward. 

And then Aphrodite was gone. Helen was alone again in a strange city with her captor’s mother. Exhaling shakily, she uncurled from her position on the sumptuous bed, placing the mirror carefully on the bedspread. 

Her movement caught Aethra’s attention, the old woman freed from the goddess’ spell. Aethra hastened to her side, one hand coming up to brush her forehead in a motherly touch.

“Are you alright, child? You look pale as milk.” Her fingers ran through Helen’s hair, untangling the long dark locks. “Don’t be afraid, my dear. I know this has been a terrible ordeal, but it will all be over soon.”

Aethra’s aged eyes, wise and soft but so melancholy, locked on Helen’s, and Helen knew that Aethra too could see that this chapter would only ever end in one way. She felt a sudden surge of affection for her kidnapper’s mother. She took Aethra’s hand and squeezed. “Don’t worry. When my brothers come, I won’t let them harm you.”

“You are kind, my child,” the old queen said hoarsely. “Kinder than I deserve, but thank you.”

Helen bit her lip as Aethra looked away, seeming so sad and resigned that it made Helen’s heart clench in fear as well as compassion. She’d grown up on stories of the great hero Theseus; her father Tyndareus had nigh revered him. And trying to reconcile the story with the fearsome man who’d snatched her from her favorite meadow, bound her wrists, and carried her off both confused and frightened her. For how could a hero so blessed by the gods and feted by men do something so foul?

“Madam,” Helen ventured softly, “is it true what men say? That King Theseus is the son of Poseidon?”

Aethra smiled wistfully. “Only the Fates can say for sure who fathered my son, the god Poseidon or the mortal Aegeus. Aegeus claimed him, but King Poseidon has shown him great favor.”

“Then, is this the fate of all mortals blessed and chosen by the gods? Is divine favor too much for mortals to bear?”

Aethra squeezed her hand again. “Perhaps, my child, perhaps. Who can say the price the gods will demand of those upon whom they bestow their grace? Heracles met a bitter end, and Jason. And I cannot see my son’s fate. But it is impossible to refuse divine favor, Helen. Do not try. If a divine hand reaches for you, you must obey.”

* * *

Helen’s brothers came for her, as she knew they would. The city let them enter with barely a murmur of protest, for Theseus was still absent. In their fury at being thwarted of justice, Castor and Polydeuces turned to their foe’s mother, but Helen stayed their hand. 

“She stays with me! Please,” Helen begged, and her brothers heeded her wish. Before they departed for Sparta, Castor smashed the mirror that had been Theseus’ gift. 

“We’ll find you a better one, sweet sister,” he promised. Helen didn’t respond, simply staring at the jagged pieces. Would Aphrodite be angered by the destruction of her vessel? Perhaps this meant that the goddess no longer claimed her. Helen was unsure whether to be relieved or saddened at the thought. 

The three children of Leda and the former Queen of Athens departed for Sparta, and Helen tried her best to leave the memory of the goddess’ words back in Aphidna.


	2. A Choice is Made

In the ensuing years, Helen tried to forget her ordeal in Athens. Aethra stayed by her side, a loyal and uncomplaining handmaiden, and Helen had heard her father and brothers once speak of Theseus meeting an ignominious fate. They were laughing about it, finding in his end a divine justice for Theseus’ wrong against Sparta, against Helen. But Helen only worried anew that all mortals touched by the gods were doomed, once the god’s favor passed. She hadn’t heard Aphrodite either, not even the way she had as a child. Maybe the goddess had been tied to the mirror, and her appearance to Helen had been a vestige of the remnants of Theseus’ divinity.

In one fortunate aftereffect, King Tyndareus would hear no more about Helen’s prospective marriage. He proclaimed to all that Helen’s tender age and traumatic experience precluded any such thoughts, and warned of dire consequences if one should dare cross him. Grateful for the reprieve, instead Helen watched as Tyndareus married off her sister to the King of Mycenae. Clytemnestra railed at the idea, and Helen watched, feeling both guilty and relieved. Eventually, Clytemnestra calmed, finding solace and even excitement in the idea of becoming Queen of the rich kingdom of Mycenae. Her husband Agamemnon was a brute of a man, tall and coarse, but he attempted to please his new wife, bringing her jewels and giving her free rein over his palace.

Helen enjoyed her years of freedom, running and hunting with her cousin Penelope, and weaving under Aethra’s motherly gaze. Out in the fields and forests, or in the women’s chambers, she could forget the male covetousness that her beauty inspired. She could forget Aphrodite’s seductive, frightening promises. And Tyndareus had been happy to indulge her. 

But her childhood couldn’t last forever. First, her brothers Castor and Polydeuces died far too soon, in an adventure gone awry. Zeus called the two up to the heavens, but Helen mourned them intensely. And their deaths left Helen without protection. News of her beauty continued to spread, and eventually, the kings and princes of Achaea began making overtures to her father. They came in such numbers, from Pylos and Argos and Thessaly and places Helen couldn’t even name, that Tyndareus feared war if he continued to deny Helen’s hand in marriage for much longer. And so the King of Sparta declared that Helen alone would choose her husband.

* * *

Helen stood by the window of her bedchamber. Outside, she could see her suitors, laughing, training, and posturing. Trying to win her favour. 

“See anyone you like?” called her cousin. Penelope stood in the doorway, grinning secretively. She crossed to Helen’s side, brushing back the heavy gold curtain in order to get a better look.

“I quite like Diomedes,” Penelope continued. “He’s handsome and already so accomplished!”

“Lies, cousin,” came another familiar voice. Helen whirled to see her sister. 

“Clytemnestra! You’re here!” Helen ran to her older sister, throwing her arms around her. Clytemnestra patted her shoulder awkwardly, then gave a little push to move Helen away. 

“You only have eyes for one man, Penelope,” she said. 

The sisters settled on Helen’s bed, and Penelope joined them, throwing an arm around Helen.

Penelope shrugged one shoulder guiltily. “I was just with him earlier. He’s trying to make our case to my father.”

Clytemnestra scoffed. “Ithaca’s an insignificant rock, why would you want to go there? Uncle wants better for you.”

“But Odysseus is the man I love, the only man I’ll ever love! And we’ll make Ithaca into a wonderful kingdom.”

They continued bickering, but Helen tuned them out. Penelope spoke of love in a way that Helen’s own married sister never did. Clytemnestra had made no secret of the fact that her husband was the most inconsequential part of her marriage. Helen herself, caught between her sister’s practicality and her cousin’s romantic ideals, didn’t know how to view married life, beyond the remembered terror instilled by Theseus’ plans. 

“Come, Helen,” Penelope cajoled, jostling her. “Is there anyone outside who piques your curiosity?”

“You’re no longer a child, Penelope,” said Clytemnestra. “Wedded life is more than fleeting girlish curiosity. And Helen has a chance few of us do: to choose for herself the man with whom she will spend the rest of her life.”

Helen grabbed her sister’s hand tightly, but Clytemnestra shook her off. The guilt rose in her throat again, that she was granted such a rare gift, but was too confused and frightened to appreciate it. She knew that Penelope would give anything to be able to choose the man she loved, and that while Clytemnestra might have still picked the glittering golden throne of Mycenae, she would have cherished her father giving her the choice.

“Here’s an idea,” exclaimed Penelope after a moment. “The flower of Achaean royalty is outside these walls. Let us all grab some pitchers of wine to deliver and go meet them. How can Helen make any choice if she stays cooped up in here?”

“Those men are here for Helen, not us, Penelope. And I have no desire to see more men disappointed to be greeted by me, instead of her.”

“But you would still receive your due, as Queen of Mycenae. None would dare disrespect you.” Penelope lowered her voice and continued, “Your sister needs our support in this, it is a difficult and stressful time for her. Be kind.”

Beside her, Helen bowed her head in embarrassment and pretended she didn’t hear. She shouldn’t be this unsure; she was well aware that Tyndareus had waited longer than was typical for a girl of her station. She wished she felt more strongly, more excitedly, about her marriage. Aphrodite had spoken to her of passion, but in this moment, Helen couldn’t fathom such an emotion.

* * *

The courtyard was filled with men young and old, their shouts and jests ringing off the marble columns. But a hush fell over the place as the three young women entered, accompanied by a coterie of servants bearing a display of drinking vessels. Clytemnestra directed her servants to set a large, decorated krater in the center of the courtyard, and then mix the water and wine. Filling a silver kantheros, Helen forced a smile when all eyes locked on her. She could feel men’s gazes on her skin, heavy and hot as a weighty cloak. With clammy fingers, she smoothed the folds of her blue skirt, then lifted her chin and moved forward with her offering.

On either side, she could hear chatter picking up again, among the din Penelope’s light laughter and Clytemnestra’s regal tones. Helen stopped in front of one very young man, who introduced himself as Patroclus, from Phthia. He accepted her gift gracefully, flashing her a bright smile. 

“How are you, my lady?”

Helen blinked at the question, caught off-guard. Patroclus’ smile softened in sympathy. “It is rather overwhelming, is it not? And if it is thus for me, I can only imagine how this whole spectacle feels to you.”

“Thank you, sir, you are kind. In truth, it is – very different from what I expected.”

“Well, my lady, I wish you luck. And happiness.”

Helen smiled and moved on. He seemed very kind, but very young. Nothing within her sparked at the thought.

The next young man, Diomedes King of Argos, gazed at her with worshipping eyes and pressed a soft, dry kiss to the backs of her fingers. Helen glanced away, to where Penelope stood with one hand resting on the arm of the King of Ithaca, then back to her admirer.

More men presented themselves in front of her, offering a flurry of names and titles. Thrasymedes, Prince of Pylos, was gravely charming, and Meriones of Crete tried to make her laugh. Aias of Locris tracked her with his eyes, in a way that reminded Helen of an eagle circling its prey. It made her nervous, and she hurried to take her leave of him. As she met each one, Helen listened for the voice of Aphrodite, hoping that the goddess would give her a sign, tell her which she should pick. She heard nothing.

Another man, tall and young and swarthy, presented himself in front of her. “My lady, I am Menestheus, King of Athens.”

Helen took an involuntary step back, old terror seizing her limbs as she remembered her abduction to Attica. Menestheus made an aborted move toward her, drawing back as he clearly saw her horror. “My lady, on behalf of Athens and the late Theseus’ family, I am here to offer our humblest apologies. Please believe that I did not come to plead any suit for your hand. But when I heard the news, I had to come see for myself that you are well.”

“Thank you, my lord Menestheus,” Helen stammered. “Indeed I am well, and I accept your apology, on Sparta’s behalf as well as my own.” Recovering her poise, she managed a smile. “We will not blame you for your kinsman’s deeds, and I am gladdened to see that Athens is in noble hands once more. I shall pray for Lord Theseus’ soul.”

Menestheus bowed low, offering her thanks for her generous words, and quickly moved on. Helen released a slow breath, trembling. She thought of Aethra, currently tending her chamber. It was perhaps odd that Menestheus didn’t ask after her, but Helen was glad for his restraint. Aethra had become her constant companion, and she could not bear to part with her.

Finally, she found a familiar face – her brother-in-law. She’d known Menelaus for a few years, if not very well, and he’d always been kind. Less imposing than Agamemnon, but with gentle eyes, he’d never failed to ask after her well-being. Now, he presented himself as her suitor.

“I did not realize you were here, my lord.”

“My brother is very complimentary of Sparta’s princesses,” he joked. Scratching his red hair, he smiled awkwardly. “In truth, I’ve always admired you. Your sweet disposition can even charm my brother from one of his moods. I think you and I could work well together. I would be honored to be your choice.”

Helen lowered her gaze demurely, and a lock of hair escaped her veil. Menelaus’ hand, large and calloused but carefully gentle, brushed the strands back into place. On impulse, Helen’s hand rose to catch his. She walked away, heart several pounds lighter. That night, she allowed herself to imagine a life with Menelaus. 

The excursion had been a good idea, and while Helen had ruled out several prospective options, she found herself comforted after meeting the rest. But meeting her in person had inflamed the gathered kings, and they began to grow more fractious. She heard her father worrying that no one would accept the one Helen chose without a challenge. Helen would never forgive herself if her choice led to war.

Two days later, Penelope burst into her bedchamber, grinning ear to ear. “Cousin, I have the best news!”

Throwing herself on Helen’s bed most indecorously, she beckoned Helen over. “Odysseus has found a solution! One that will safeguard your choice of husband _and_ allow him to marry me as well. Your father and mine have already agreed. Isn’t this wonderful?”

Helen heaved a sigh of relief. “That is wonderful, thank you. What did Odysseus propose?”

“An oath of the most sacred sort, that all must swear, to uphold your choice and aid your husband if any rogue should be bold enough to try and take you as his own. Your father was so pleased, he told mine right away that Odysseus is a great man worthy of my hand in marriage.” Penelope beamed.

“Do you believe that everyone will agree? These are kings, will an oath be enough?”

Penelope nodded. “Agamemnon has already agreed to swear, even though he is not in contention for obvious reasons. And once he does, I believe the others will fall in line. No one wants to seem uncooperative, it would cheapen their standing. And you, dear cousin, will have a splendid wedding.”

* * *

In the end, there was only one choice for Helen. Menelaus wasn’t as handsome or rich or young as some of the others. He wasn’t the most famous or powerful. But he was kind and considerate. When he looked upon her, his eyes shone with tender admiration. And Helen had always felt comfortable around him.

Penelope’s instincts proved correct. Agamemnon and Odysseus first swore, and the rest were quick to follow suit. A sacrifice to Poseidon sealed their vows. And then Helen appeared before them, ready to name her husband. Tyndareus saluted Helen’s decision and Agamemnon boasted smugly, but when Helen placed her hand in his, Menelaus raised her palm to his lips and pressed a kiss to the center. Tyndareus presented them to the waiting crowd of suitors and subjects and proclaimed Helen’s choice. 

The wedding ceremony passed in a blur. All Helen remembered was the moment she pledged herself and her new union to Hera, patron of marriages. In that moment, she thought of Aphrodite, instead. She hoped the goddess heard her and blessed her servant. That night, Menelaus came to her, bearing himself with a new quiet confidence, and took her in his arms. One hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face up to coax their lips to meet. Menelaus’ lips were warm and soft on hers, and when his tongue slipped out to taste her lips, Helen found her eyes closing as her mouth opened. Their tongues met and a frisson of pleasure eased down Helen’s spine. Menelaus’ other hand moved to her shoulder, tenderly finding the clasp of her gown and releasing it. Helen gasped into Menelaus’ mouth as the folds of linen slipped free, cascading to the floor. Baring her to his gaze. 

Menelaus took a step back, taking in her beauty. 

“Do I please you, my husband?” Helen murmured.

“More than anything,” Menelaus whispered reverently. “Your beauty defies all description, and I am the luckiest man alive, that you have chosen me as yours.”

Helen’s hands reached for Menelaus’ tunic. She looked up at him, the question clear in her eyes. In answer, Menelaus bent to kiss her again, and then he helped Helen unfasten his tunic. Once bared, Helen traced the hard muscles of his shoulders and then down his chest. She felt Menelaus’ hand cupping her breast, his thumb stroking over her nipple. The weight and warmth of his hand felt strange but welcome. His fingers rolled her nipple, teasing and gently pinching until the peak ached stiffly. Clutching at Menelaus’ back, Helen closed her eyes and gave herself to the sensations.

She yelped as she suddenly found herself in the air. Cradling her in his arms, Menelaus grinned at her. “Ready for bed, my lady?”

Her back hit the bed softly and Helen laughed. Maybe this was the passion that Aphrodite had promised. Menelaus smiled at the sound of her laughter. “I’m pleased that you are pleased, my Queen.”

Menelaus hovered over her, and Helen let her thighs spread, welcoming him. He kissed his way down her body, her throat, then between the valley of her breasts, to her belly. A gentle warmth began to pool in her abdomen. When he entered her, she sighed in pleasure. He began a steady rhythm, letting Helen adjust to his girth inside her. They rocked together, mouths meeting, as Helen’s hands roamed Menelaus’ strong back down to squeeze his buttocks. When Menelaus climaxed, he whispered words of love and adoration in her ear. Afterward, Helen curled up in his arms and succumbed to the lure of sleep, pleased with her choice.

The next morning, Menelaus left to meet with Agamemnon and Tyndareus. Helen remained in bed, feeling pleasantly sore and languorous. She could become accustomed to married life with Menelaus. He’d been careful and attentive with her, and he touched her with a delicate reverence she’d never experienced. It wasn’t what she had imagined passion to be, but it was… nice. Given time and space, she felt they could become more.

“Helen!” her cousin called, and Helen raised her voice to bid her enter. 

Penelope darted inside, her burnished curls bouncing about her shoulders, with Clytemnestra on her heels. “How was your first night as a married woman?”

“Don’t be crass,” Clytemnestra chided. She crossed to the window and opened the curtains, letting the morning sun spill inside. Penelope bore a carafe of watered-down wine, which she poured for each. Handing Helen a goblet, she nudged her impatiently.

Helen blushed, thinking of the soft warmth rising up her body as Menelaus claimed his prize. “It was very pleasant.”

“Is that all?” Disappointment colored Penelope’s voice.

“Penelope!”

Penelope shrugged at Clytemnestra, unrepentant. Helen sipped her wine, unsure how to describe her feelings. 

“It wasn’t what I imagined, from the bards’ songs. Nothing all-consuming or uncontrollable. But perhaps those depths of emotion are reserved for the gods and their favorites, not for the likes of us.” And perhaps Helen didn’t have a special relationship with the Goddess of Love after all, and her childhood memories were just figments of fancy.

* * *

Wedded life turned out to be not so different from unwed life. Helen spent most of her days tending to her father and preparing to become Queen. She was pleased when she and Menelaus had been formally announced as his heirs, for she couldn’t imagine leaving Sparta. A year after her wedding, Tyndareus confessed to her that he was ailing, and likely to not see the next spring. 

“It’s why I agreed to everything that happened last year,” he explained to her. “After your brothers departed this world, I knew you would soon be alone. I needed to see you settled and safe before I board Charon’s boat.”

“I’m not ready, Father. Please, not yet. You can’t leave me yet.”

Tyndareus brushed a hand against her cheek. “Sweet child. I’ve always known that you were only on loan to me. I am eternally grateful that Father Zeus saw fit to give you to my care, and I can only hope that I have served Him and you faithfully. Lovingly.”

Upon Tyndareus’ passing, Helen threw herself into Menelaus’ arms and wept. Menelaus drew her close, kissing her on the forehead. 

“He will be remembered and honored for generations to come, my love, and Sparta can be in no better hands, under your fair rule.”

While Menelaus hurried to meet with the priests and make arrangements, Helen lowered herself carefully on the Queen’s throne. Her mother’s throne. In the years since her wedding, she’d sat here a few times in her late mother’s stead, always beside her father. Now, she’d rule at the side of her husband.

“My Queen?” Aethra entered, and Helen leapt to her feet.

“No, Aethra, please don’t call me that.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Helen bit her lip, trying to swallow back her tears. “I can’t believe he’s gone. There’s no one left, only my sister, and she is never close.”

Aethra placed a gentle hand against Helen's abdomen, just barely beginning to swell. "But you will have someone new, soon. And perhaps if the child you bear is a boy, you will see your father reborn in him."


	3. Destiny Met

The palace was buzzing with gossip about the newest foreign envoys. The Prince of Troy was representing his father King Priam on a diplomatic mission, and Helen’s maidservants were swooning. The young prince was apparently very handsome, and generous with his smiles and his trinkets. Troy was a rich kingdom, with access to even more wealth, and Helen knew that Menelaus was keen to make a good impression. Trade with Troy could greatly benefit Sparta, and even give them an edge over Mycenae.

Aethra helped Helen dress in her finest robes, and then brushed her dark fall of hair until it shone. Clasping her mother’s necklace, a wide circlet of beaten gold inlaid with seed pearls, about her throat, Helen took a steadying breath. By now, she was very familiar with the Achaean royal houses, but this was her first opportunity as Queen to welcome and treat with a prince from a more distant land. Her nerves were alight with a strange anticipation, which Helen put down to the solemn importance of the task before her. 

Entering the throne room with Aethra by her side, Helen offered her hand to the young prince. He bent low over her hand, burnished curls falling forward to briefly shield his eyes, and brushed his lips against the tips of her fingers. When he straightened, Helen seeing his face clearly for the first time, had to swallow a gasp. As she beheld him, she felt a heat pooling in her loins, startling in its intensity. 

“My lady, I am Prince Paris of Troy. I have heard rumours of your beauty, and I must say that I am very pleased to see that such winged words hold nothing but unvarnished truth.”

Helen felt the heat rise to her cheeks, and hoped her face did not betray her. Beside her, Menelaus laughed in delight.

“Young prince, I present to you my Queen, Helen, the Jewel of Sparta. Indeed, the gossips who name her the most beautiful woman in the world do not lie. And Helen, the young nobleman beside the prince is Lord Aeneas of the Dardanians.”

Helen inclined her head toward them both. “It is an honour to receive you, my lords.”

That night, Menelaus held a feast in honour of their new guests. Reclining next to her husband, Helen couldn’t help but steal glances toward the Trojan prince. He had an aura unlike any she’d ever encountered before. She watched him drink deeply of his golden kylix, her eyes tracing the strong lines and muscles of his throat as he swallowed. 

_“Splendid, is he not?”_ The voice sounding in her head so closely echoed her own thoughts, that at first Helen did not notice the intrusion. Laughter, light as the gentle chime of bells, filled her mind.

_“Prince Paris is indeed a marvel. Beautiful and beloved of the gods. A match, I daresay, for you.”_

_“My lady?”_ Helen wondered, and the laughter gained a lightly mocking edge.

_“Have you forgotten me, my child?”_

_“Never, my lady Aphrodite. I thought that perhaps you had forgotten me.”_ It had been years since Helen had heard the goddess’ voice, but her soul could never forget. Even when she’d sought to convince herself that she’d dreamt the conversation, her soul knew better. And now the goddess was back, returning to her with the arrival of the strangely captivating Prince of Troy.

_“Do you remember what I promised you? That day in Aphidna, when you were lost and terrified?”_

Helen whispered her agreement.

 _“A passion bright enough to set the world ablaze,”_ Aphrodite continued. _“And see how I keep my word.”_

_“But my lady, I am married already.”_

Laughter again sounded through her head, and then Helen felt the goddess withdraw. She turned back to Paris, in the middle of a spirited debate with her husband, and then quickly looked away. She nibbled a bite of apple as she tried to calm her nerves. She was married to the man of her choice. And if she wouldn’t characterize their bond as “passionate”, well then, what of it? Unbidden, her gaze strayed again to Paris, noting how his hair gleamed bronze in the torchlight and his warm eyes sparkled as they met hers. Paris smiled at her and lifted his cup in salute. There was mischief and promise in his smile, as if he knew what she was thinking and agreed. Helen dropped her gaze demurely, but not before she caught Paris’ companion, Aeneas, staring at her with a strange, puzzled expression.

“Aethra,” Helen said later that night. “What is it like to be possessed by a god?”

Her maid hummed thoughtfully before replying, “It is a strange sensation of detached euphoria. One moves as if in a dream, graceful but distant, aware yet unable to control all the pleasures that come.”

Aethra grabbed Helen’s hand in an urgent, frightened grip. “Be careful, Helen, if you truly believe you have caught the attention of a god. Divine favour is a wonderful thing, but it can also be so terribly destructive.”

* * *

Over the next few days, Helen and Paris circled each other. Helen would catch him looking at her, smiling at her, and each time sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. Once, he even took up her goblet and pressed his lips to the rim where she had drunk. The hunger in his eyes, so different from Menelaus’ reverent adoration, terrified and thrilled her all at once, because for the first time, she found herself returning the sentiment. And in her mind, Aphrodite whispered seductive promises.

“What do you think of our guest, Wife?” Menelaus asked one evening. Helen startled, but Menelaus’ eyes held only innocent curiosity, seeking her opinion and insight.

“He’s different from other princes who’ve come,” Helen responded. 

“I can imagine,” Menelaus laughed. “Apparently he was raised a shepherd boy, in accordance with some prophecy about the Trojan ruling house, and reunited with his royal family when the gods decreed.”

So Paris was indeed blessed by the gods. A match for her, Aphrodite had declared. The House of Atreus had never enjoyed the divine blessings which Helen and her beloved, late brothers had. The way Prince Paris did. What would it be like to join with him, to be a couple beloved of Olympus? What wonders could they achieve? 

The next day, Menelaus organized a stag hunt in honour of their guests. Helen, her light peplos girded about her thighs, was standing beside her horse, a dappled grey mare, when Paris approached.

“Are you joining us, Your Highness?”

“Of course, my lord prince. Women in Sparta love to ride and hunt.”

Paris’ teeth flashed in the sunlight as he grinned. “I look forward to seeing such a spectacle.”

“Do you doubt my prowess, prince?” Helen asked, feeling a new boldness come over her.

“Not at all, lady! I have no doubt you will put us to shame.”

The master huntsman sounded the horn, and the party was off. Across the fields, Helen gave herself to the wind and the sound of her horse’s hooves. It had been too long since she’d ridden with such abandon. On the other side, the woods were cool and quiet, sunlight filtering through the branches. The rays caught Paris’ face, limning his features in golden glory. Helen stared entranced, before she caught herself. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she looked away.

Helen tethered her horse and shouldered her bow and quiver. On foot, she slipped through the trees, eyes sharp for her prey. She followed her instincts, weaving a path deeper into the forest. 

A touch to her shoulder elicited a gasp, and Helen whirled, bow at the ready.

“Whoa, my lady!” Paris stood before her, eyes sparkling. 

“What are you doing?” Helen whispered.

Paris’ voice lowered to match hers. “I wanted to speak with you.”

Helen swallowed down the pleased flutter in her throat. “Then speak.”

“Helen. My Helen.”

Helen’s brow arched at the temerity. Paris fumbled to continue. “I have seen you in my dreams, where you were mine. The goddess showed me your face, told me your name. She promised that you were meant for me, just as I was meant for you.”

“The goddess?” Helen whispered.

“The Golden One. Aphrodite, Mistress of Hearts. She speaks to me. Does she speak to you? Does she tell you the same?”

 _Yes_ , Helen wanted to say, but no sound came. If Paris were to be believed, the goddess truly did bless them. And how could Helen refuse? Paris stepped closer, one hand coming up to cup her cheek. Helen backed up, but Paris followed, stalking her the way she would a stag. Helen’s back hit a tree, and the solid bulk behind her helped lend her strength. Paris hovered above her, hand brushing her face. Passion darkened his eyes and coiled in her breast. When Paris’ head bent toward hers, Helen arched to meet him. His mouth was hot on hers, seeking her touch, her taste, her very soul. It was like nothing Helen had ever felt before. 

In the dark solitude of the forest, Helen surrendered to this new sensation, this raw want that threatened to consume her. Closing her eyes, she pulled him close. The muscles of his shoulders and back were taut, corded, and warm to her touch. Dimly, she felt his hands on her, gripping her and lifting her higher, holding her against the tree. Helen wrapped her legs around him, her mouth never leaving his, and the world fell away. Her back scraped against the rough bark behind her, but the sting only served to heighten the pleasure. Paris’ fingers crept underneath her light linen peplos and up her inner thigh, stroking and massaging. He kneaded the inside of her thigh until she felt she could melt in his arms. And then she felt him stroke the apex of her thighs, brushing the tender skin of her sex. She moaned into his mouth when his fingers slipped inside her core. They devoured each other with mouths and hands, and Helen felt that she finally knew what passion meant. Helen’s back arched taut as a bowstring. Paris' clever fingers slid and twisted inside her wet folds, teasing her to greater heights. Throwing her head back against the tree, she bit down on a scream, her whole body thrumming as she reached her climax. 

Distantly, she felt Paris’ hands nudging her thighs further apart. He pressed closer to her, kissing her hungrily, one hand on her breast, pinching and rolling a nipple until it pebbled in aching anticipation, and the other gripping her opposite hip. She felt his manhood press against her thigh, and then he was inside her. Helen clung to him, digging her nails into his back. 

“Harder, harder,” she growled into his ear. Paris cooperated beautifully. Thrusting up inside her, he clutched at her buttocks and backs of her thighs, lifting her up and down on his shaft. Helen moved with him eagerly, gasping in pleasure. Bucking her hips, she thrust down against him, meeting each of his movements. She could feel Paris’ mouth on her throat, hot breath tickling the loose strands of hair curling at her neck. Her own hand moved, almost of its own volition, to clamp over her mouth as the pleasure built. The ecstasy washed over her, until stars flashed behind her eyes as they came together.

Aphrodite’s brilliant presence surrounded the two chosen favorites.

Gradually, the world returned around them. A horn sounded in the distance, causing Helen to quickly pull away. 

“Come, we must rejoin the others!”

Paris helped her straighten her dress. Helen dreaded to think of how she must look, flushed and disheveled, utterly wanton. But as she looked to Paris, she found it difficult to care much. Grabbing Helen’s mount, they hastened to find their companions, and discovered that Aeneas had had the honour of downing the biggest stag. Paris hurried to congratulate his friend, while Helen moved to Menelaus’ side.

“Great Zeus, what happened to you?”

Helen thought quickly. “My horse here hit a stone and threw me. Fortunately, Prince Paris was nearby and he helped set me to rights.”

Menelaus clapped a large, jovial hand on Paris’ shoulder. “Ahh, my friend! I can’t thank you enough for your service to my Queen.”

Caught between them, Helen blushed. Aeneas, she saw, was again studying her curiously, his gaze sliding from her to Paris. But if he had suspicions, he voiced none of them.

* * *

They continued to steal moments and kisses in the shadows, while Paris negotiated his father’s treaty with Menelaus during the day. Aphrodite was a constant presence in Helen’s mind, sometimes speaking and sometimes simply watching. Helen floated through the days, filled with the heady, excited pleasure of the goddess. She knew Aethra was worried about her, but she couldn’t bring herself to explain.

When Menelaus announced that he must leave them for a few days, Helen was torn between terror and elation. Menelaus kissed her goodbye, an almost chaste brush of lips on lips, and promised to return to her soon. 

“May I come to you tonight, Helen?” Paris whispered.

“No,” Helen demurred. “It’s too risky.” Then, “I’ll come to you.”

In her years as wife and Queen, Helen had at last come to accept her beauty. She had accustomed herself to men’s desirous gazes, and had no worries about the power of her charms. But disrobing before Paris brought a new flutter of nerves. He stared at her as a starving beggar before a feast, brimming with a visceral hunger and appreciation. He clasped her to him, handling her as if she were the daintiest blossom. Stepping into his arms felt like coming home.

Helen drew Paris into a kiss, delicately at first, but they couldn’t long delay their hunger. Again, Helen wrapped her legs around him, exulting in the way his strong arms held her. Her mouth opened against his, letting him taste and explore as he pleased. His breath was sweet, faintly flavored with wine. Paris spun with her in his arms, and threw back his head, laughing.

“Shh, shh,” Helen admonished, giggling herself against his mouth. “Someone will hear.” 

Paris stumbled to the bed and dropped her on the richly woven blankets. For a brief moment, Helen was reminded of her wedding night. Menelaus had been kind, pleasant, even enjoyable. But this tonight was the passion Aphrodite had promised all those years ago. Paris lost no time burying his face in her breasts, kissing and sucking until Helen’s flesh tingled all over. His mouth engulfed one breast, sucking to the point of pained pleasure, while his hand squeezed and massaged the other. Arching into him, Helen’s eyes fell shut in ecstasy. Her own hands busied themselves with Paris’ tunic, tugging and pulling at the fastenings until the fabric ripped. 

Spurred by a drive she couldn’t articulate, she pulled Paris close, wrapped her legs around his hips, and then flipped them both over. Paris let out a huff as his back hit the bed, and Helen straddled him, working the garment loose. Paris stared up at her, eyes wide and dark.

“My goddess,” he breathed.

“Don’t, don’t anger her.”

“But you are. Just, look at you. You are truly the most beautiful creature to grace this earth.” His hands crept up her sides, stopping just below her breasts.

“No good comes from vying with the gods, my love.”

Paris’ hands tightened around her, and he looked up with a sudden urgent glint in his eye. “Love? Do you love me, Helen?”

Helen hesitated. Did she love him? Did she even know what love was? All she was certain of, was that with Paris, she felt more vibrant and more wanted than she’d ever known. She wanted to smile, and she wanted to see him smile. She wanted to feel his hands, his body against hers, and inhale his scent. She wanted to taste him, taste everything he was. Passion. Love could grow from passion.

Paris offered an understanding smile and squeezed her hand. “I have loved you since Aphrodite first showed you to me. I have loved you from afar, in my dreams, and here in Sparta. And I am eager to earn your love in return.”

“I don’t think I can put my feelings into words right now,” Helen whispered. “Let me show you instead.”

Blanketing his body with her own, Helen kissed and mouthed her way down Paris’ chest. She licked the salt sweat from his taut stomach, feeling the muscles quiver as his breath hitched. Lower and lower, following the trail of dusty hair, until she reached his manhood. Hard and dripping already, it beckoned her, and she did not resist. She gave the flushed head an experimental lick, and then another, before taking it in her mouth. Her tongue swirled around the head, drawing moans of pleasure from Paris. His hands tangled in the waves of her hair, little tugs ignited sparks of heat in her belly. She felt his manhood grow and swell in her mouth, much to her pride. She swallowed, taking him deeper, to the back of her throat. Paris' breath quickened and his fingers tightened in her hair. Helen's hand delicately reached for his sac, rolling him in her palm, and Paris' hips bucked up sharply. She continued to play with his sac and swallow his member, delighting in every pant and moan she drew from him. Pleasure, passion, challenge, and laughter all in one delicious, all-consuming moment, so different from the comfortable and safe nights with her husband.

Afterward, Helen lay in Paris’ arms. This night seemed like the most wonderful dream, and she was loath to have it end. She knew such bliss couldn’t last. Menelaus would return within a week, and Paris would leave soon, return to his life in Troy. Helen would move forward with her pleasant, if passionless, life. The thought brought tears to her eyes.

“Hush, love, don’t cry,” Paris murmured in her ear. “I’m here, I’ll never leave you.”

“Bu you will. You must. Your life is across the sea, where I cannot follow.”

“Helen.” Paris faced her gravely, taking her hand in his. “Come with me.”

Helen blinked, unsure if she'd heard him properly. 

"Come with me," he repeated.

“I-I am the Queen of Sparta, I cannot just leave.” The very idea was absurd, and Paris was cruel to tease her so.

“But you can!” Paris squeezed her hand earnestly. “Because we are chosen by the gods, our love is blessed and sanctified by the Lady Aphrodite herself. Aphrodite promised you to me, and what greater ally or mistress can we have?”

“You are a guest in Menelaus’ home, the gods will curse us, not bless us. We will never be safe.” The vow between guest and host was sacred, and the gods would punish severely those who dared break it. Tempting away the lady of the house was an act punishable by death and disgrace. 

“Come with me, Helen," Paris whispered a third time. "Come take the life you want and the love you deserve. The Goddess of Love has promised us. What mere mortal can stand against that?”

Helen drew her arms in, shivering. The prospect of just leaving with Paris was thrilling. She’d never imagined she could feel with such intensity and fervor before, and she dreaded returning to a world that would seem even more colorless, compared to what she had found. But to abandon Sparta, her home, her parents’ and brothers’ home almost defied belief. 

Hurriedly, she pulled her robe about her. “I can’t answer you now. I-I must go.”

“Helen, wait!” Paris caught her hand and pulled her close. Then his lips were on hers, hungry and fiery, as if he sought to devour her soul. And Helen felt her body respond, wanting to match him flame for flame. Finally, he pulled away. “I love you. I will always love you.”

* * *

In her own chamber, Helen sank to her knees and buried her head in her hands. Distantly, she felt Aethra by her side, hands fluttering worriedly over her. And in her head, she felt the presence of the goddess, a comforting blaze that warmed her spirit.

“What do I do?” she asked into her palms. 

“What is it, my lady, what’s wrong?” Aethra asked next to her, but in her mind the goddess’ voice sounded.

_"You know what to do, my child. Follow your heart. Follow my will."_

"Do you will it, then?" The answering surge of assent nearly knocked Helen to the ground.

"Will what, my lady?" Aethra tugged her hands away from her face. Helen looked up into Aethra's pale, wizened face. She felt a sudden surge of affection for Aethra, once her captor and now her most loyal confidant and servant. 

"Aethra, will you stand by me always? Will you follow me wherever life leads?"

"Of course, my lady. But what is this about? Are you unwell?"

Helen laughed, a high, strangled sound that rang strangely in her own ears. "Yes, I believe so. Unwell in head and heart, and yet also, better than I've ever felt in my life. I believe I may be in love, Aethra. But not with my husband."

Aethra nodded knowingly. "The young prince, Paris. I've seen the way your eyes always seem to find his. But please, be wise about this. Enjoy your dalliance now, but be prudent. He will not stay forever."

Helen dropped her voice to a bare whisper, bending close to her maid. "But I could go with him. He's already asked. I could board his ship with him and embark on a new life by his side."

Helen could feel Aethra's shock and fear, the old woman staring her down, aghast. 

“What of your daughter, my lady? The Princess Hermione. Surely you don’t mean to take her from her kingdom?”

Helen bowed her head. Hermione was the one fault in this dream. Her young daughter, the child born after her father's death, a girl instead of the boy Helen had wanted – could she just abandon her? But Hermione had always been more drawn to her father. Even as an infant, she’d screamed and cried in Helen’s arms, until Menelaus took her in his. And Menelaus doted on her, boasting to all who’d listen of how Hermione would one day make a wondrous Queen, as strong as her father and as fair as her mother. No, it would be far crueler to take Hermione away from all she’d ever known, than to leave her in her own land with her loving father. Helen still vividly remembered the day she’d been seized and carried off, the terror she’d experienced in a land of strangers, brought against her will. This time, embracing a new land would be her choice, but it would not be Hermione’s.

Aethra read the terrible decision in her eyes. “You mean to leave the little one here, to depart without her.”

“Princess Hermione belongs in Sparta, but I. I belong with Paris. I feel the hand of the goddess in this, Aethra. The Golden One's voice sounds in my ear. She wills this union, for reasons I cannot see. She has decreed that I belong to Paris, and he to me. How can I thwart her will?"

"It is a dangerous thing, to be drawn into the gods' dealings," Aethra warned. "All seems light and well while they bestow their favour on you, but it can never last. Make sure you can stand by your choice, even after Laughter-loving Aphrodite has turned her gaze away."

_"The lady speaks wisely. But I carry out the decree of the Fates. This is the passion for which you are destined."_

"I hear, my lady. And I obey."

Hearing Helen's words, and knowing instinctively they were not meant for her, Aethra sat back on her heels. "You are decided, then."

Helen smiled, feeling a fragile peace and joy settle within her soul. "And you'll come with me."

"You know what will follow. Menelaus will not just allow you to flee, without demur. Are you prepared?"

Helen heard but scarcely listened. "The gods will protect us. It is their bidding that Paris and I join together. Come with me, Aethra. Come to Troy." Saying her new destination aloud, Helen felt her future spread before her. 

"It's decided, then. I shall be Helen of Troy evermore."


	4. Promise Embraced

_“Don’t be nervous, child.”_ The goddess whispered. _“This is your destiny.”_

Helen sat in the gilded litter, Paris next to her. A heavily embroidered veil covered her face. The journey from Sparta had been an absolutely exultant experience. A whirlwind of love and lust and communion of souls, the likes of which Helen had never before known. She doubted even Penelope felt this way about her beloved Odysseus, like the whole world faded into the distant background when they were together. But now, the surreal dream of love was reentering the mortal plane. Paris had sent word ahead to his royal father along with Lord Aeneas and the majority of the Trojan expedition, and then he and Helen had taken their time making their way across the sea. While their circuitous route was meant to evade the agents of Menelaus and Agamemnon, Helen treasured the additional time she had alone with her new love.

Their procession was fast approaching the city that was to be her new home. Troy. Her walls were formidable, promising safety and shelter. Paris squeezed her hand reassuringly. His smile was radiant, beaming his joy and relief that she was beside him. Looking at him, Helen felt that same blaze overcome her, sweeping away her doubt and fears. His confidence and passion became hers. Nothing else mattered, so long as he was hers and she was his.

“You’ll love Troy,” Paris promised as they entered through the city gates. Helen could see throngs of people lining the streets, eager to glimpse their arrival. The cheers all around her were deafening, and the love they clearly showered on Paris, and by extension her, bolstered her spirit. The city itself sparkled, sunlight glinting off marble columns and sandstone walls.

“She’s lovely,” Helen breathed in delight.

“I’m glad my lady is pleased. Look up there.”

The palace was a delicately gilded structure, perched atop the acropolis. Sunlight glinted off polished stone and golden adornments. And standing in front, Helen saw the noble figures of who could only be the King and Queen of Troy. She swallowed dryly, one hand tightening in the folds of her robe. 

All too soon, she was face to face with her destiny. Paris dipped a quick bow and then, laughing, ran from her side to throw his arms around first his father and then his mother. Then he moved on to embrace a grave-faced young man with the same burnished curls crowning his head that adorned Paris’. Only afterward, did he step back and beckon Helen forward. Helen drew a shaky breath, trying to quiet the ringing in her ears. There had been no opportunity to receive word from Troy on their journey around the Aegean. King Priam could easily decide against risking his city for a foreign, fugitive queen. If they rejected her, what would she do? What could she do? 

Helen bowed low, murmuring a greeting she would not remember later. Gentle hands drew her up, and she found herself looking into kind, serious eyes. 

“Welcome to Troy, my lady,” King Priam intoned. “Tell me what you seek.”

It was time to formally make her plea. Helen glanced at Paris, who smiled encouragingly. And in the quietest recess of her mind, sounded a soft hum of approval and promise. The goddess was still with her. Drawing herself up, Helen winged a quick prayer to her divine father Zeus and squared her shoulders.

“My lord King of Troy, I am Helen, daughter of King Tyndareus of Sparta. And I am here of my own volition because of the love I bear your son, Paris. We seek your blessing on our marriage.”

Helen closed her eyes behind her veil, releasing a tense breath. Her fate now lay with the gods. Those gentle, regal hands closed on her shoulders, and she felt warm, dry lips brush first one cheek, then the other through her veil. Behind her, she heard the ring of Paris’ exultant laugh.

A shrill scream suddenly split the air. Helen’s eyes snapped open. Behind the assembled throng of Paris’ family, the small figure of a girl huddled in the shadows of the palace’s colonnade. The unearthly howl that ripped from her throat sent chills up Helen’s spine. 

“Curse! Your marriage will be a curse upon us all! Your marriage torch will engulf all Troy in its flames! The libations poured for you will turn to blood drowning the streets. Paris. Paris the burning firebrand, whose lust will bring down countless kingdoms.”

The girl’s screams dissolved into wordless cries. Paris’ face tightened in anger, while the young man whom he’d embraced earlier winced. The Queen, who had yet to speak, made a small motion of her hand, and two young handmaids detached themselves from the royal coterie and hustled the girl deeper inside the palace. 

The Queen turned back to Helen. “My apologies for my daughter Cassandra, she is a troubled child. I am Queen Hecabe, and beside me is my eldest son, Hector. We welcome you to Troy, daughter.”

Helen couldn’t speak, her mind replaying the girl’s words. If her presence here, her marriage to Paris, would doom everyone, then surely she couldn’t stay. Menelaus would come after her, bringing who knows how many soldiers, and she couldn’t ask Troy to give her sanctuary from her dishonoured husband. Former husband. 

A hand in hers woke her from her fears. “Come, my dear,” said Queen Hecabe. “You’ve had a long journey, and you should bathe and rest. Come with us, for you will need your strength in the weeks to come.”

Helen forced a smile. “Thank you, my queen, for your kindness. I would very much appreciate that.”

Then Paris was in front of her, finally lifting her veil from her face. She heard the awed gasps from among the gathered crowd. Paris’ hands, warm and protective, cupped her face. 

“My sister frightened you, I can see it. But there’s no need, I swear to you. Cassandra has always felt that my presence in Troy would bring some nameless ruin, long before I’d ever heard of your name. But she’s wrong. I love you, and the gods love us both. My royal father and mother bless our union, as Queen Aphrodite blesses us with her protective seal of approval. We belong to each other now, and no one else.”

Saying that, he kissed her. Deeply, his hands framing her face and his tongue entwining with hers. A rush of euphoric love swept over Helen, causing her to go weak at the knees, and she gave herself to him wholeheartedly. Distantly, she could hear the crowd cheering and applauding their prince. Cassandra’s horrible warning disappeared to the darkest recess of her mind, swept aside by Aphrodite’s promised passion.

* * *

That euphoria had yet to fade. Helen perched delicately on the edge of the bath. Around her, her new sisters fluttered and primped. She sensed the wariness and worry under the mask of friendliness, but Paris was confident in her ability to win them over. The eldest, a tall, elegant woman who introduced herself as Ilione, took charge of the bathchamber. Helen handed her robe to Aethra, standing watchfully by her side, and submerged herself in the hot, scented water with a grateful sigh. The journey had been long, sustained by her deep desire, rather than any external luxury. 

Ilione took a seat next to her, and then reached for Helen’s hand. Around them, Helen could see the other women drawing close. This was it, her chance to show her devotion to their brother and, by extension, their city. 

“Lady Helen,” Ilione began. “I do not mean to offend, but as the eldest daughter of Troy, I must ask. Did you come here of your own free will? If not, I swear to you that no harm will come to you. We will see you safely home, if you wish it, and throw ourselves on your mercy.”

Helen inhaled, feeling the eyes of the others upon her. Aethra also stood close, a strange hopefulness coloring her expression. Helen wished she could be sorry to disappoint her loyal handmaid.

“By Father Zeus and Golden Aphrodite, I vow that I am here of my own free will. I love Paris, with all my heart and spirit. He is my one choice.”

“But you chose Menelaus too,” another voice cut in. “The news of your choosing even made it across the sea to Troy and Phrygia.”

Helen turned toward her accuser, a young woman with a fall of long brown hair and dark, suspicious eyes. At her questioning glance, the woman bowed briefly. “I am Andromache, Lady Helen, wife of Prince Hector.”

And thus, future queen of Troy. Helen gathered her wits, trying to explain how she knew she was meant to be with Paris, not the man she’d chosen years ago. 

“Yes, I chose Menelaus once. I was very young, and it seemed as if all of Achaea had come to our doorstep, seeking my hand in marriage. And my father Tyndareus was insistent that I be wed. Father was ill, although I did not know it at the time, and my brothers Castor and Polydeuces were but recently passed. I had to name a husband, and Menelaus was familiar. His brother had married my sister, and so we knew each other a little. He was safe and kind, and I care for him.”

Helen fell silent. Since deciding to leave with Paris, she had avoided thinking of Menelaus. His pain, his anger, his deep hurt at her betrayal. Perhaps she could contact him, try to make him understand. Perhaps he would accept her decision and let her go.

“Menelaus is a good man, and I care for him as a brother. But the love I feel for Paris is beyond anything I felt for Menelaus. Until Paris, I didn’t understand what love was. He opened my eyes to a world of passion and desire and need, a love that consumed me whole until I was reborn in his arms. I love Paris with every fiber of my being, and I am ready to give up everything to live with him for the rest of my days.”

Helen wished she could make them understand. She’d always struggled to articulate her thoughts and emotions, and Paris inspired her to feel more strongly than ever before. Behind her, Aethra began to tend her hair, washing and oiling the dark strands

“He makes my soul sing. We belong together. Golden Aphrodite has promised that I be his. She has spoken thus to me, directly. I am doing her bidding by forsaking my homeland for Troy. So you see, the gods cannot be angry with us, we are merely yielding to her decree.”

She did not speak of the young daughter she'd abandoned in Sparta. She could not bear to voice that shame, that dark sacrifice with which her destiny had been bought. She would pray for Hermione every day for the rest of her life, but she could not speak her name. Not even Paris knew the extent of what she had forsaken, and he never would.

Another young woman, with a mass of chestnut curls piled at the back of her head, leaned forward, introducing herself as Creusa. “The goddess can work in mysterious ways, and her will is difficult to fathom. I know, for my husband is her son. Aeneas, you met him in Sparta.”

So that was why Aeneas had sometimes looked at her so strangely. Helen wondered if he had seen or heard the goddess speaking to her. She would have to seek him out and ask, but suddenly, a tremor ran down her spine. She didn’t know if she wanted to hear what he had to say.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Aethra whispered, pausing her ministrations.

“Yes, thank you, Aethra.” Helen summoned a smile. She was so close to the fulfillment of the goddess’ promise. She couldn’t let weak fears lead her astray. Aphrodite wouldn’t betray her.

* * *

The wedding ceremony was an extravagant public celebration, but to Helen, it was an intensely intimate moment. In the sanctuary of Aphrodite’s temple, she and Paris were joined as one under the auspices of the goddess. Lady Theano, priestess of Athena and an elder of Troy, had protested the slight to Hera, goddess of marriage. But Paris had insisted that only Aphrodite, who had promised them to each other and given her protection, could seal their union. In the cool shadows of the temple, she could feel Aphrodite’s presence surrounding and buffering her. Outside, the people of Troy danced and celebrated. As the priest made the proper sacrifices and intoned the words that would make them one heart, Helen held onto Paris, the world around her receding as she lost herself in the love that shone in his eyes. Nothing mattered but this moment, not the lingering uncertainty of city’s elders nor the wild cries and accusations of the absent, troubled princess Cassandra, nor even the threat still posed by Menelaus and his power-hungry brother. There only existed Helen and Paris and the love between them.

After the ceremony concluded, King Priam led her out to meet her new people. “My people,” he cried, “I present to you the most beautiful woman in the world: Helen, Princess of Troy.”


	5. Epilogue - Destiny Fulfilled

Smoke unfurled over the doomed city and terrified screams resounded across the plain. Achaean soldiers stormed through Troy, pillaging and killing with the gleeful abandon that descends after ten long years of fruitless toil far away from home. The King was dead, his queen and his daughters captives. A giant wooden horse stood proudly silhouetted against the images of blood and terror. Aphrodite surveyed the scene dispassionately. Did she regret the carnage wrought by that long-ago promise? Regret was mortal folly. 

“Are you pleased with your handiwork?” a voice sounded behind her. Aphrodite turned to face the Lady of War.

“My handiwork, Athene? Your champion conceived the device that finally ended this war, and did so by your inspiration, I’d wager. You hate Troy, and you’ve campaigned actively and hatefully for over ten years. I loved Paris, but Troy was fated to fall.”

Cool grey eyes settled on her, evaluating and perceiving too much, but Aphrodite didn’t flinch.

“You loved Paris?” Athene asked. “But what of Helen, Paris’ beloved.”

“Helen. Beautiful Helen.” Aphrodite laughed. “Paris wanted Helen. I saw it in his heart even before he knew she existed. And that suited my purposes just fine. Giving him Helen was a small price to pay for the prize in sight. But Helen will forever be remembered for her lustful and shameless betrayal of her rightful chosen husband.”

A sly smile crept across Aphrodite’s divinely beautiful face. “Helen of Troy, the most infamous adulteress in the world. After all, did I not vow, after Tyndareus neglected me during his sacrifices, that his daughters would be ruined by adultery?”

Aphrodite turned back to gaze upon the ruins of Troy, following the path of her son to safety. She didn’t need to find Helen amid the chaos. Her revenge was complete.


End file.
